


A Woman's Touch

by iihappydaysii, MistressPandora



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, First Time, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Suspected Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28817256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/pseuds/iihappydaysii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: Claire joins Isobel for tea to discuss their husbands.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Isobel Dunsany, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Isobel Dunsany/Lord John Grey, Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56





	A Woman's Touch

Owing to a series of unavoidable delays, the coach Claire had taken from Inverness did not arrive in Edinburgh until late. On a whim, she'd asked after Mr. Malcolm, the printer, and been directed to a flat along Carfax Close. A small placard by the door read _A. Malcom_ in a cramped hand. Jamie's hand. 

For a moment, she stood in front of the door, debating the merits of knocking and startling Jamie awake. With a deep breath, she tried the handle. It was unlocked, and she pushed the door open. "Jamie?" she whispered. If he was awake, she'd rather he not attack first and ask questions later. 

He wasn't awake, and Claire caught a glimpse of red hair on the pillow, the rumpled bed clothes pulled up high. The fire had died, and the small room was cold and drafty. Claire shivered, and the memory of how warm and safe it was to sleep next to Jamie Fraser made her smile. She bent over the bed and brushed a ruddy curl from his forehead. He was smiling in his sleep.

“Jamie,” Claire whispered again, and slid her hand under the warmth of the quilt to touch his arm. Her hand touched… not arm. It should have been arm, but it wasn’t arm. “Jamie?” She groped a bit, trying to figure out what in the hell she was touching. A man’s chest? An unfamiliar man’s chest. Confused alarm bells went off in her head and she froze, unable to make another squeak, unable to remove her hand, unwilling to throw back the covers and investigate further.

“Jamie,” the man mumbled. “Not now. I’m tired. Doesn’t your arse need a break anyway?”

Well, _that_ broke the ice. Claire released the stranger’s firm pectoral, seized the top of the quilt, and yanked it down to reveal Jamie tangled up with a man she didn’t know. They were both naked—so very naked—and the stranger was just unfairly attractive. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” She stumbled back from the bed; her only coherent thought was the realization that the room smelled like sex.

Jamie startled awake and swore in a jumble of Gaelic and sat bolt upright, his left hand going under his pillow on reflex. The maneuver forced the other man off of him. “John, what—” He looked around the room, his eyes settling on Claire, and it was like someone very large had punched him in the stomach. “Claire? Clarie! Oh God.”

“Claire? It can’t be.” The man, John she figured, sat up in the bed. There was something knowing in his voice, so Jamie had mentioned her to this man. It seemed unlikely then that was simply random, opportunistic sex. He squinted at her in the dark, staring her down. “Who are you?”

"Who am I?" Claire gasped. Something in this man's possessive posture sent her into a fit. "I'm his _wife!_ Who the bloody fucking hell are _you?"_

Jamie looked from one to the other and, apparently sensing danger, scrambled out of the bed and came toward her. Of all the ways she'd imagined this moment, this hadn't even been in the same universe as possible. "Claire, I dinna understand—"

"Who. Is. He?" Claire demanded.

“Who I am is none of your concern, Madam. But whoever you are, you are _not_ Jamie’s wife. He was widowed more than a decade ago .So whatever it is you’re trying to extort from this man or from myself, I will not allow you to do it.”

“My name is Claire Fraser, and I _am_ his wife. Jamie, please tell me what’s going on.” She was on the verge of tears—oh no, she was already crying—and hated the weakness in her voice. “I came back. I found out you were alive, and I came back.”

Jamie put his big hands on her arms and squeezed gently, as if he was afraid the vision of her would burst like a soap bubble. “Are ye truly here?”

“Came back?” John whipped his head towards Jamie. There was sympathy in his expression, warmth and care. “Jamie, people don’t return from the dead. I do not know who this is or why she’s here or why she’s lying, but it cannot be your wife.” 

Claire opened her mouth to give John or whoever the hell he was a piece of her mind but Jamie held up his hand and silenced her. 

“I said she was gone, John,” Jamie said, still staring at Claire. “I didnae say she was dead.” He tried to pull her into his arms but she resisted, and he stopped trying.

“I knew it was possible that there would have been someone else, Jamie, but this… I never expected to walk right in on it. Never expected that it could be…” It was such a non-possibility—or so she thought and she would have been wrong—that Claire couldn’t bring herself to say, “a man.”

The look John gave Jamie in that moment could kill. “Perhaps you should’ve let me know it was possible, then, that at some point your wife could return to reclaim you, instead of leading me to believe precisely what you know you’ve led me to believe, despite your current insistence otherwise.”

“Aye, but if I’d told ye the entire truth, ye’d think me mad.” Jamie still had one hand on Claire’s arm, and no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t make herself leave the room and run off. Where the hell would she go anyway? “Ye’re no’ superstitious enough for me to tell ye she’s a witch or one of the wee folk. And I didnae ken it _was_ possible for her to come back or that she would try.”

Some of that visible anger dissipated, though what was left of it almost instantly turned toward Claire. “I may have believed she was a witch,” he mumbled. 

Fury flared white-hot in Claire’s chest. “Why you son of a b—” She only made it two steps toward the bed before Jamie stopped her with a firm hand on her middle. 

_“Merde_. Could ye perhaps wait until the sun’s up and we’re all clothed to start killing each other?” Jamie urged Claire back to the one chair near the dark fireplace and compelled her to sit with his hands on her shoulders. She glared daggers up at _her husband_ , not particularly caring what state of undress anyone was in. It was only the realization that Jamie probably did have a weapon under that pillow, and John probably did know how to use it that kept her from lunging. “Now sit yerself down, Sassenach, while I get dressed. Then I’ll see ye settled, aye?”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” she growled. Claire was reasonably sure Jamie wouldn’t actually hurt her if she went for his jugular. 

John pointed at the chair where Claire was sat. “Could you be so kind as to hand me my breeches?” 

* * *

It had occurred to Claire that perhaps she should just use what money she had left to get a coach to Inverness and go back through the stones to her own time. But after a bottle of wine, drank entirely herself, she decided that she could wait for the solstice in Edinburgh. Maybe Jamie would come to his senses. Because surely he'd lost his entire fucking mind, putting her up in an inn for the rest of the night and then going back to his male lover while his _wife_ slept alone. 

Well, she hadn't slept. She'd drank. And she'd paced the floor. And she'd cursed and cried, then cursed at herself for crying. And when the sun came up, she made her way back to Jamie's flat as he'd instructed, as if he had any right to tell her what to do. This time though, she knocked. A young woman answered the door. She was pretty in a subtle way, and Claire’s heart sank even further. "Jesus H. Roosevelt fucking Christ. Is there anyone in Edinburgh Jamie _isn't_ sleeping with? Or am I the only one?"

“ _I’m_ not sleeping with Jamie,” the woman replied. “My _husband_ is. It’s a very important distinction. Would you like to come inside, Mrs. Fraser? I’ve made tea.” 

She was so calm and poised that Claire's initial shock and anger at finding yet another stranger in Jamie's home fizzled out. Besides, the tea did smell good. "Alright," Claire replied and stepped through the door. "Your husband would be… John? I take it?"

“Oh no, my husband’s name is Thomas.” The look on Claire’s face must have said enough because the young woman very quickly added, “That was a jest. Yes, my husband is Lord John Grey, and I’m his wife Isobel. I imagine this is quite the shock for you, as it is for me. I believed you to be dead until I was informed otherwise this morning.” 

"Yes, that seems to be the going consensus." Claire looked around the little flat, but they seemed to be quite alone. "And where is Jamie?" She couldn't possibly care less where that Lord John was unless it was the bottom of a loch.

“He’s at the print shop. Took Willie there this morning. Should be home in a few hours, I imagine. Feel free to wait here with me. I’d be happy for the company.” 

Claire was easing herself onto a settee by the table and tea, but collapsed the rest of the way. She gaped at Isobel, horrible, morbid curiosity getting the best of her. "Oh God and who the hell is Willie?" Fucking Christ, how many men did he have?

“Mine and Lord John’s son.” Isobel sighed. “You needn’t be checking the rafters for hidden lovers. There’s only my husband.” She reached out and took Claire’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m starting to think you’d prefer that tea with a little whisky, yes?”

"I can't possibly imagine there is enough whisky in this flat, but yes, please." Claire looked down at Isabel's hand on hers, a point of inexplicable reassurance. "I would apologize for being abrasive and suspicious, but I don't actually want to. So, you're just… fine with your husband having sex with another man?" If this had been 1968, Claire would have gone with, _You don't need to put up with this, you know._ But this was not the twentieth century, and this poor girl probably did need to put up with it. She regretted her words immediately but couldn't bring herself to apologize. 

Isobel pulled her hand away and strode over to a nearby cabinet where she extracted a bottle of whisky. When she sat back down by Claire, Isobel poured some into Claire’s cup, looked at Claire’s face, then poured even more. She added a dash to her own cup as well. “If I had a problem with Jamie, I imagine John would have a problem with Katherine. And Anne. And Betsy. Margaret. Louise.” An expression crossed her face as if she were briefly recalling a particularly pleasant memory. “Well, he probably wouldn’t. My husband is selfless to a fault, but still, it’s only fair. I love John and Jamie makes him happy.”

There was so very much to unpack in that explanation, and Claire stalled by taking a very long and necessary pull of whisky. The liquor splashed down into her empty stomach and went to work. "So you and John have an open marriage." Was that a phrase that would translate to the eighteenth century?

Isobel took a sip of her tea. “Well I’ve never heard it phrased like that before, but I reckon you could call it that. I love John, as I said. I’ve known him nearly all my life. He has plenty of room in his life and in his heart for me and for Jamie, and I have plenty in mine for him and for whomever may strike my fancy. I do know our relationship is far from conventional, and I know it isn’t for everyone. How are you feeling? I should’ve asked earlier.” 

Claire's eyebrows shot up, and she focused her eyes on her teacup that was mostly whisky. "Oh, not nearly as calm as you." She polished off her drink and set her cup on it's saucer. "Look, I'm glad that you and John have an arrangement that works well for you. But Jamie and I aren't like that. Besides, Jamie doesn't…" Her traitorous mind treated her to an instant replay of John's half-awake question: _Doesn’t your arse need a break?_ "Except, I was wrong about that too. Jamie _is_ attracted to men. And he took me to the inn, and he tried to hold me and kiss me and I wouldn't let him. And then he came back here to John. Oh, God. I'm the other woman, aren't I?"

“Oh, Claire. It is alright if I call you Claire? You can call me Isobel, of course.” Isobel looked up at Claire, who gave a brief nod, then continued. “You’re not the other woman as you called it. I know Jamie well, and he still speaks of you often. He loves you, and yes he loves John too, but I promise one does not diminish the other.” 

Claire poured herself more tea. At least it was mostly tea this time, and offered to top off Isobel's cup. She accepted with a nod. Something about the young woman's posture maybe had Claire looking at her again. She had a very young face, couldn't have been much more than half Claire's age, but she spoke with wisdom and held herself with a beautiful confidence. It was a rare trait for a woman in the 1960s and virtually nonexistent in this time. And yet, she had this bright, youthful smile that was so disarming. Claire sighed. "I know I'll have to ask Jamie of course, but maybe it'll be easier if I'm prepared for his answer. Where does this leave me? Where do I fit into all this?"

“I reckon wherever you want. I’ll be frank that I don’t expect Jamie would leave John, and I’m sorry but I truly hope he would not. John would be heartbroken and so would Jamie, even if he did feel obligated. I can tell you that Jamie won’t turn you away, and John won’t ask him to, won’t want him to. He also knows how deeply Jamie loves you.” Isobel smiled at Claire again, leaning in, an unexpected heat in her gaze. “And I can’t say I blame him. You are a remarkably beautiful woman.” 

A startling thrill rushed through Claire, there and then gone again, and she matched Isobel's movement without making the conscious decision to do so. Having no idea how to respond to the compliment, she stared at Isobel's delicate hand, the way her thumb absently stroked the handle of her teacup. It had felt good when Isobel had touched her, and she wished she would do it again. Which was all manner of confusing. "I suppose you could say I'm still rather in shock." Claire poured more whisky into her tea and let her right hand linger on the bottle, tracing all the imperfections in the glass. "Jamie and I were apart for a very long time, and this is hardly the reunion I expected. I can't even begin to explain how lonely it was. How lonely it still feels."

“I truly can’t imagine. To be separated from the one you love for so long. It is not fair.” Isobel took her hands again, both of them this time. “You don’t have to be alone anymore. As strange as it may seem, we’ve built something of a family here and Jamie has spoken of you so often that, in a way, there has always been a space for you in it. If you’d want it.” 

Surely Isobel was fully aware that the way she had leaned over the table, combined with the power of stays and a scooped neck bodice did very distracting things to the depth of her cleavage. _Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp. You are far too old for a college fling._ Isobel's hands were warm and soft, and Claire flattened one of hers just to feel more of that silky skin on her palm. "That's all Jamie ever wanted. A family. People to care for and to love. I suppose I am glad he found it, whether it was me to give it to him or not." A single tear stood in her eye, and Claire swiped it away hastily. "I'm sorry. I had an unspeakably long trip and a terribly long night."

Isobel stood and moved over to sit beside Claire on the settee. “There’s no need to apologize to me. You’ve been through more than I can imagine.” She laid a hand on Claire’s knee. “If there is anything, and I do mean anything, that I can do to help you feel better, I’ll be happy to do so.” 

Claire had absolutely no idea what she was doing. But Isobel was so close. And her hands were so comforting, and she had such pretty, pink lips. Claire leaned across the narrow distance between them, so slowly, but Isobel didn't move away. Her lips tasted like tea and faintly of whisky. Claire drew back suddenly and had absolutely no idea what to say or do next.

Isobel smiled, then tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “If this is the sort of distraction you’re wanting, I can support that.” This time it was Isobel taking the lead, growing the kiss from a moment before into something deep and tinged with passion.

Her hand cupped Claire’s face, then slid down over the rise of her breast and her nipple perked at the touch. “You’re so soft,” Isobel whispered, warm in her ear.

The feel of her breath or her words sent a shiver down Claire’s spine, and she laid a hand on Isobel’s thigh to steady herself. There were an awful lot of layers of fabric between Claire’s hand and Isobel’s thigh, but it just felt so good to touch and be touched. Her thoughts drifted to Jamie, and she felt a momentary pang of habitual guilt. Then Isobel pulled at the laces of her own bodice. At best, Jamie expected this to happen and would be happy about it. And at worst, well. Fair was fair. 

The guilt evaporated, and Claire kissed Isobel again, taking her time, making mental notes so she could think about this later. “Did you know your skin is like porcelain?” And by God, she wanted to see more of it.

Isobel took Claire’s hand and kissed the inside of her palm, then trailed down to the pulse point in her wrist. She guided Claire’s hand to her clavicle before she finished undoing her laces. With one final pull, the dress fell enough to let pink nipples spill over the fabric. Eyes locked on Claire’s, she drew Claire’s fingers down. “You can touch me if you’d like. _Wherever_ you’d like.” Her words floated through the air between them, as warm as the tea they’d been drinking.

“I’m rather out of my depth,” Claire admitted but felt no shame or embarrassment. She cupped Isobel’s breast in her hand and ran her thumb over her nipple. “Oh,” she breathed. She gave Isobel a gentle squeeze and kissed her again, chasing the taste of the tea into her mouth. “I think this is precisely what I need,” Claire said against her lips.

“I’m glad. Because you are precisely what I want.” Isobel kissed her deeply then, with a passion and a force that titled her back against the settee. Her mouth trailed a line of kisses over Claire’s cheek to her ear. She took the lobe between her teeth and nibbled. The vibrations from a kittenish mewl sent a shiver down Claire’s spine. “May I touch you as well?”

“Yes. God, yes.” Whether it was the whisky in her tea or Isobel’s hand on her waist, Claire’s head spun, drunk and reeling. They stood up by some unspoken agreement—there was no exiting this sort of gown sitting, after all. It was an exciting sensation of newness for Isobel to undress her, pulling loose each lace or bow or button with steady, deliberate hands. If Claire took half a step forward, she could reach the closures of Isobel’s skirts by putting her arms around her. The maneuver brought them close together, touching from top to bottom, revealing so many places where their curves complimented each other, where they fit.

Soon enough they were naked, their dresses billowing around their ankles like clouds. Isobel stepped forward, kissing her with the pressure not just of her mouth, but her whole body. Claire was guided back onto the settee, and then Isobel was over her and all around her. Her smell was sweet and floral, lighter and cleaner than a man’s. Her lips moved down and down and down until Isobel’s mouth closed around Claire’s nipple and suckled. She placed her hand over Claire’s other breast and kneaded, tugging and pinching in a remarkably practiced way. Then Isobel dropped to her knees and kissed over her soft belly, and brought her mouth to a place only Jamie Fraser had ever kissed. 

Jamie had never done it with this much finesse though. After a brief flutter of unaccountable shyness, Claire laid a hand on Isobel’s head, gently stroking her soft hair. Intense waves of internal heat rolled from Isobel’s tongue and lips into her core and out through her arms and legs. Claire let out a wordless moan, gasping and panting. She couldn’t stop staring at this pretty young woman between her legs, and when Isobel’s dark eyes met Claire’s from under the fan of her lashes, Claire’s heart skipped a beat. She found the few pins in Isobel’s hair and pulled them out, sinking her fingers into her brown locks to let them fall loose over Isobel’s shoulders and Claire’s thighs.

And Isobel didn’t stop. She continued on and on with those incredible licks and kisses, sending tingling waves of pleasure through Claire. Isobel slid her hand up Claire’s calf to her knee to her thigh and then slipped a finger inside. It seemed all those women she mentioned earlier… Margaret. Anne. Betsy. Whoever. Had been just the experience Isobel needed to be able to do this with an expert sort of talent, and Claire found herself quite grateful for the line of women who’d come before her.

Isobel’s finger stayed in place, continuing to curl and tease in all the right ways, but she lifted her face, smiling, as she rose back up to kiss Claire again.

Claire had never particularly cared for the taste of herself, but on Isobel’s lips it was sweet and tantalizing and she wanted more. Wrapping her arms around Isobel, Claire pulled her close, her skin delightfully soft against her. She let her hands roam over Isobel’s back, hips, gave her arse a squeeze—earning her Isobel’s teeth in her bottom lip—rubbed her thumbs over Isobel’s erect nipples. All the while, Isobel’s deft fingers had Claire dripping and panting and her heart racing. She had a sudden urge to put her mouth on Isobel’s breast and gave into it immediately, dipping her head and sucking on her nipple. _Oh_. It was about as enjoyable as being on the receiving end of such attention.

Isobel let out a soft noise, then said, “Oh Claire. I am quite glad you came in for her tea.” She giggled, then guided Claire’s mouth away from her nipple, crawled on top of Claire, kissing her until she was lying back on the settee with Isobel above. Isobel, who was now kissing her neck with wet reckless abandon. 

"Good God, me too," Claire said. It was nothing at all like being crushed under Jamie's large body or even Frank’s. It was an entirely new sensation, Isobel's petite frame on top of her, curving gently where a man had only straight lines. Claire slid a hand between Isobel's legs and sank two fingers into the hot wetness there. It was surprisingly thrilling from this angle, to feel Isobel from the inside, to feel her shudder against her, their breasts pressed together in delicious connection. 

Combing her fingers through Isobel's hair, Claire nudged Isobel away from her throat. Her slender thigh was between Claire's legs and she rocked her hips against her. She claimed Isobel's mouth, chasing the faded taste of herself on Isobel's tongue.

It was surprising how natural this felt, the way her body seemed to just understand what it needed to do, how it needed to move against Isobel to grow the seeds of pleasure in her belly. With each motion, those seeds began to sprout into the sort of garden Claire could get lost in for hours and hours. It felt like hours too, but in the best way, and then, in the end, everything around Claire and inside her blossomed like a million perfect roses. 

“Isobel,” Claire gasped. The name felt good on her lips and Claire repeated it as a gentle and yet surprisingly thorough orgasm rolled through her. Claire held Isobel tight against her, buried her face in her hair, breathing in the floral-sweet scent of her, so feminine and lovely, coaxing her over the edge with her. “My God, you are marvelous.”

“As are you,” Isobel replied, relaxing into Claire’s touch. She sighed. “As are you.” She kissed Claire’s cheek, then rolled onto her side, so they could lie beside each other. She swept Claire’s hair over her shoulder, then placed a kiss there. She yawned. 

The yawn was catching and Claire settled rather bonelessly into the settee, tangling their legs together. She traced the long line of Isobel’s arm, a feather light brush of her fingertips, and grinned at the gooseflesh that erupted in the wake of her touch. It felt good to flex and relax her muscles, and Claire sighed, feeling rather like a contented and sleepy cat. “I suppose a rational conversation with Jamie might be in the realm of possibility,” she whispered. Claire let her eyes fall closed. “Though your husband and I did not exactly get off to the best start.”

* * *

“God, I love yer wife,” Jamie whispered to John, not wanting to wake Claire or Isobel. The two women held each other in a tender embrace, stretched out and naked on the settee. Isobel had offered to speak with Claire, perhaps disarm her, put her at ease. Lend a woman’s touch to the situation. Precious few people could pacify Claire when her blood was up, but aside from the careless pile of discarded clothing and a finger or two of whisky from the bottle, there didn’t appear to be any carnage. He took a quilt off the bed and draped it over the women, rather grateful they’d thought to send Willie off with Fergus until supper. 

Jamie stood over them, just to watch Claire sleep. He brushed a dark lock of wild curl from her eyes. Christ, it really was her. After all these years. And she was still remarkably beautiful. Jamie silently sent up every prayer of gratitude he could think of and gripped the back of the settee to keep his feet under him.

“Not quite what I expected to find when we returned,” John whispered. “But I cannot say I’m disappointed.” He leaned into Jamie’s side. “So, my dear, do we wake them up or let them sleep?”

Jamie put an arm around John and held him close. “Claire was right furious wi’ me when I left her at that inn last night. I’m sure she stayed up all night stewing and swearing. Best to let them sleep.” Their reunion had been far from what he’d expected. Well, the entire situation was a thorough surprise, and not remotely ideal. It would have been better if Jamie had had a chance to speak with Claire first before introducing her to John. Poor lass. Poor John, who’d only wanted to protect Jamie from someone he clearly thought mad. He’d listened so patiently as Jamie explained, held him while Jamie wept for joy at her return, was solid as a rock while Jamie spewed out every last worry and fear for what that might mean for them.

Jamie caught sight of a small red mark on Claire’s neck and he smiled. “She should be much more agreeable when she wakes, if the shock has worn off.” Jamie let out a long sigh. “I have _so much_ to tell her. So much to ask.” The child she’d carried with her through the stones, the one he’d sired here, the places he’d been, what new marvels might have been waiting for her in her own time. A lifetime to stitch back together, a new one to explore. 

**Author's Note:**

> **Cast**   
> 
> 
> Claire Fraser - MistressPandora
> 
> Lord John Grey - iihappydaysii
> 
> Jamie Fraser - MistressPandora
> 
> Isobel Dunsany - iihappydaysii


End file.
